


A slice of cranberry cake

by Lilian



Series: /31 Ineffable Darlings [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Coffee Shops, Crowley is Not Cool, Fluff and Humor, Love at First Sight, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilian/pseuds/Lilian
Summary: Do you believe in love at first sight? Crowley didn't either until he walked into the small coffee one day and saw a barista who didn't know how to make coffee.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: /31 Ineffable Darlings [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559905
Comments: 9
Kudos: 132
Collections: Ineffable Humans AU





	A slice of cranberry cake

**A slice of cranberry cake**

The man behind the counter looked like he'd be more suited for working in a library or a university than in a coffee shop. Crowley watched as he fucked up another person's order (which seemed to have happened for the second time since Crowley came in and joined the queue), to the loud displeasure of the patron who started to unleash a nonsense amount of aggression onto him. Jesus, people just went completely barmy around the holidays. The arsehole berating the white-haired barista seemed to be half his age too. And just why would a man in his clearly close to his fifties work in a coffee shop anyway?  
  
Crowley peered around the person in front of him who was on her phone and oblivious to the scene The Arsehole Standing Before Her continued, getting increasingly testier and harsher.  
  
"…. when I clearly asked for a white large mocha double espresso with pistachio flavouring, a bit of caramel and a splash of soy! What are you, a moron?!"  
  
Crowley looked back at the man so out of place. Perhaps he was new. But again, **who** changed their career to work in a mediocre, clearly family-owned, -not-exactly-nice-and-cosy-but-clearly-struggling-since-the-Starbucks-opened-up-just-a-few-steps-away coffee shop in their fifties?  
  
To Crowley’s immense surprise, the man primly put down the plastic lid he was holding and looked Arsehole Guy right in the eye. His previously almost angelic face that sported a disinterested smile slowly transformed into a frown.  
  
"Now young man, that is not a polite way to speak to anyone," he said in a tone that could mostly be described as “I am your disappointed grandfather, I’ve served in the war and seen some shit you couldn’t even imagine, so you better know your place, dipshit”. Crowley grinned. This man was something else. He looked so soft and well-read (even though he hasn’t had glasses on, and Crowley never met well-read looking people without glasses until now), amicable. Crowley completely forgot his annoyance over the longer waiting time than usual and -quite frankly- also forgot about glancing on his phone for the time, or around the room behind his sunglasses for his date.  
  
He wondered if perhaps this was why the man worked here now. If he was feisty enough to get fired from his previous job.  
  
"If you are unsatisfied with my service you may have an oat biscuit for free, or wait for me to make your drink again. But perhaps it’d be wiser to choose another establishment where they serve the… something something pistachio coffee you wanted.”

Crowley's eyebrows peaked out from behind his sunglasses to take a long, impressed look at the situation too. Because _wow_. The man could just not be bothered to care or to at least act like he cared _at all._ Crowley watched, fascinated, and completely missed what the arsehole muttered back. He slammed his drink back on the counter and left in the loudest way possible. Crowley rolled his eyes.  
  
The barista smiled at the next person, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The girl standing before Crowley removed her earplugs and returned his greeting in an unenthusiastic voice.  
Crowley stepped closer when she moved ahead to give her order, and he spotted something that he didn't notice before. _He was wearing a nametag._ It said "Azira" and some unrecognisable scribble at the end, as if the person writing it only realised that the remaining space will not be enough for the whole word when they ran out of room but nevertheless crammed in as much as they could, making the last part completely unrecognisable.  
  
In all honesty, Crowley came in for a simple black coffee no sugar no milk just to prove he was a badass who drank black coffee in front of his date who he never met before and therefore some things needed to be established _early on_ and without words. These “some things” could be summed up in a short sentence: “Crowley was cool – the type of cool that desperately wanted people to be aware of that.”

So a black coffee and nothing else as he generally did not care for sweets nor was hungry enough to get sandwiches.

Earplug Girl asked for a white frappuccino.  
  
Crowley watched Azira putter around the coffee machine (completely unhurried, masterfully and blissfully ignoring all the people behind Frappuccino Girl and Crowley, even though some of them were already grumbling about the state of service, and although they were not Arsehole-Loud, they were also not exactly quiet about it). Azira seemed to generally not know how to work the machines and Crowley would not have been surprised at all if he got out a manual from under the counter to patiently read their instruction manuals. He somehow gave off the vibe of a person who thought themselves adept at following instructions must have felt when faced with all the parts of an IKEA furniture. 

Azira made a “frappucino”. Girl plugged her earplugs back in and left with it. Crowley abruptly realised he was up – at the same time it solidified in his mind that he couldn't _possibly_ ask for a coffee. Not if he knew what was good for him.

“Oh hello there, what can I get you today?” Azira smiled at him and Crowley felt the Oh Fuck Siren go off in his head. Inwardly, this meant obtrusive thoughts and completely inappropriate answers like “Well, first your number, second your address” and “I’d like to sample that smile of yours, looks delicious” and also “shitshit he is beautiful and cute and sassy and kind and he is SPEAKING TO ME, say something, say something, you idiot”. He couldn't remember a single name of a liquid sold at a coffee. Except for coffee, which Azira couldn't make. 

Outwardly, the Oh Fuck Siren manifested in a flushed face, a stutter-cough – lets-not-even-try-to-untangle-what-noise-that-was and a completely unrecognisable word. Well, at least he managed to step forward before all of this started, so there was a bit less risk of him falling forwards after getting stuck in his own legs. (Which happened exactly _once_ , thank you very much, but it was so spectacularly awkward one carried it around all their life.) 

Azira blinked, surprised, and then his smile turned wider and his gaze subtly changed.

_Oh great, now he thinks you are **not** **cool**._

“I didn’t quite catch that, dear. What would you like?”

 _Fuck my life,_ Crowley thought, _he is the sort of person who calls people dear._

“I… uh- a cake.” Crowley named the first thing in front of him. Desperate times.

Azira, blast him, did _not stop_ smiling. He even put his hands together and wiggled excitedly. Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“Oh, how wonderful. What kind?”

“Sorry?”

The barista met his gaze again. He looked so impossibly gentle. All of Crowley's internal organs were whining now, and it was hard to concentrate on anything else but that, and the _smile_. 

“What kind of cake would you like?”

“Ah! What kind would you recommend?”

Crowley did not care for the cake, he was just playing for time. To prolong their conversation as much as possible. Azira, on the other hand, became _even more_ delighted.

"Oh!”

Honestly, as if Crowley told him next week’s winning lottery numbers. He glowed even more than before and Crowley couldn't look away from his radiance.

"Well, it's not an easy choice, my dear. The cranberry is my personal favourite, it's light and fuity and wonderfully refreshing. Then there is the triple chocolate, which is very scrumptious and I do have to tell you, they have a lovely dark chocolate-raspberry mousse here, but I know not everyone likes...”

“I’ll take the cranberry!” Crowley interrupted. Azira stopped talking, surprised for a second then smiling wildly again. Like Crowley somehow made him happy, like he made the best possible choice and saved 20 children plus the whales while he was at it.

Azira hummed as he took the cake server and put a big slice on a plate for Crowley.

“Just a second, let me see about a fork.”

“They are on the side there, it’s self-service. Can we get a move on?” The customer behind Crowley raised their voice. If Crowley had magical powers that man would have been dead in a second. He still glared because one never knew when those developed. 

“Right, yes,” Azira said, sheepish for the first time, and Crowley turned back to catch his next words. “Just take it out of there then please, if you don't mind.”

Crowley took the cake – reached a bit too far and their fingers brushed as the barista handed over his plate.

“Thank you,” Crowley breathed with so much sincerity it was surely weird. Azira must have not found it _too_ weird though, because he smiled at him again and said: “You are most welcome, dear boy.”

 _Dear boy._ Feeling hot and cold at the same time, Crowley turned, and as if getting out of a trance, he struggled over to an empty table. He put down the cake, sat down and watched Azira make very subpar and a few surely inconsumable drinks, about seven or more.

When the last customer was gone, and Azira lowered his shoulders a bit, Crowley realised he not only had not touched the cake in, god, what was it? 30 minutes? But he also completely forgot to bring a fork with him. His face brightened to a colour of an overripe tomato. For chrissake, how old was he, ten?

Someone gently cleaned their throat next to him. Crowley whipped his head up. It was Azira, and there was a lamp right behind his head, making him seem like an angel with a halo around his white curls.

“I’m… terribly sorry for bothering you, dear. But I seemed to have forgotten...”

“No-no-no, it’s no trouble at all,” Crowley protested. His hands were a bit frantic, trying to illustrate this point.

“Lovely,” Azira nodded, some previously barely-there tension disappearing from his stance. “I forgot to charge you. For the cake.”

“ _Fuckshityes,_ ” Crowley groaned, mortified. “Sorry, my fault, I can’t believe I just walked away without paying, I--”

Azira giggled. His whole frame shook. From up close, Crowley could see that he was more on the chubby side, round face paired with some extra fat that stretched out his woollen cardigan over his belly, and… wait, wasn’t he wearing an apron of some sort before? He must have. It was green, with the name-tag on.

Crowley forgot what he was trying to say, but saw, with sudden clarity and instinct that he _could not let this man go_ _without… without…_

“I’m Crowley,” he said, standing up and pulling his wallet out his pocket. “I’m also dreadfully sorry, I didn’t-- let me pay for it now."

Azira lead him over to the counter, pressed a few buttons on the tin which he also seemed to have no idea how to operate, and carefully gave Crowley back his change.

“Can I… um, get you anything?” Crowley asked, shifting his weight to the other foot.

“Oh, how very kind of you.” It didn’t escape Crowley’s attention that he threw a glance towards the cakes. “But it’s all right. I can have as much as I want. Privileges of the staff, you know. Even if I’m only substituting for a few hours.”

That explained the incompetence somewhat.

“Is that why your name is…?”

“Yes, it’s Aziraphale, originally. Could not fit it on the little...”

Crowley smiled and stuck out his hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you. Anthony Crowley, and I prefer Crowley.”

“Nice to meet you too. Aziraphale Good. Aziraphale, if you please.”

“Would you like to join me? There is no one waiting, and I’d like to hear the story of how someone gets a substituting position here.”

Aziraphale, to Crowley’s biggest surprise, went over and sat down and started talking.

A wonderful, wonderful amount of time later (Crowley couldn’t even try to guess how much), some people came into the shop, and Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other with a similarly dismayed expression. They talked about so much, Aziraphale’s real job first (he was a literature professor, but he also volunteered in the library in his free time, so Crowley’s first impressions of him turned out to be completely true), and Crowley told him about his horrible, soul-killing corporate work, and then they started discussing the theatre, their interests, but it was nowhere near enough, and Crowley felt like someone out in the heavy rain right after someone yanked the umbrella out of his hand.

“Crowley dear, I’m afraid that--”

“Just tell them the coffee machine is broken.”

Aziraphale blinked and stepped over behind the counter without justifying that with an answer, reaching the coffee-making station just a second before the four teenagers did. Crowley chewed himself out for that instinctive reaction. _He thinks you are an immoral little shit now, good job, Crowley, how can you be--_

“...terribly, terribly inconvenient, but there is only tea and the food that I can offer you now. They promised it will be fixed by tomorrow, but not today.”

“That’s okay.” The shortest of the teenagers said. “Can we get three sandwiches to go, please?

Crowley stared unabashedly at Aziraphale while he prepared the order. He always thought love, at first sight, was a ridiculous notion, dreamt up by single people waiting for romance. But now he met Aziraphale, and he was pretty sure he wanted to marry him. He did just lie after Crowley’s suggestion, and he did it with a completely straight face too. Perfect. Husband. Material.

As soon as the four teenagers left with the three sandwiches, which Crowley would have found curious any other day, but now couldn't be arsed to wonder about, he was at the counter.

“Choose a drink you can make. Anything.” He requested, feeling giddy. “My treat.”

Aziraphale was so proud of himself for knowing where the hot water button and the tea selection were (absolutely bloody adorable), and he showed them to Crowley like they were the greatest secrets in the universe.

He made two milky PG tips and Crowley couldn't stand it, hated the taste of it so much more than any other kind of tea, which he told Aziraphale while they took the mugs back to their table, and that made Aziraphale laugh. He looked like an angel and made Crowley feel like he was one too.

“You haven’t touched your cake.” Aziraphale frowned in the middle of Crowley’s story about how he got his car. “Dear, you haven’t even gotten a fork.”

“Not really big on forks. I mean, cakes. You can have it.”

“Nonsense. How can one not like cakes? You have to try, at least.”

Crowley shook his head, grinning.

“I want you to have it.” Oh no, the suggestive tone might have been too much, too soon. 

“Come on,” Aziraphale flirted back right away, sprinkle in his blue eyes. “Just a bite. It is my favourite. Don’t you wanna know what I like?”

Crowley swallowed.

“I do, angel” he allowed, and Aziraphale seemed equally delighted by his answer and the endearment. Which Crowley only noticed slipping out a second too late.

With his whole body burning with embarrassment, Crowley focused so hard on not suffocating himself with that one bite of cranberry cake as he possibly never did on anything other in his entire life. He got through it without an accident, and when he looked up, he found Aziraphale looking at him fondly.

“Have a drink with me after Newt comes back,” Aziraphale said, so matter of factly, so easily as if they’d done this a hundred times before. Maybe they had, in some other lives. “As soon as he is back, I can leave and we could have… a proper one. Do you like red wine?”

“Yesss,” Crowley answered. “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> .... if you are wondering, Crowley's original date never showed up. Or did he, but left immediately after seeing them make heart eyes at each other...? you decide.


End file.
